


wound you up like i tied a bow

by andibeth82



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Dark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Heavy Angst, Knifeplay, Mission Fic, Rope Bondage, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re going to have to be convincing,” Fury says, and it’s not until later, when they’re completely alone and it’s all setting in, that Clint understands what his boss means by <i>convincing</i>. </p><p>(Natasha and Clint are sent to Bangkok in an undercover mission where they’re tasked to infiltrate a brothel, posing as a client and a customer.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	wound you up like i tied a bow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samalander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Faith and Numbers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121345) by [samalander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander). 



> I had the general framework for this story bouncing around in my head for a few months, but never got around to putting it together - so perhaps it was serendipitous that fate (or the mods) offered me a chance to have this particular idea line up nicely with something that my recipient had already written. 
> 
> Please note the tags and nature of the material. Everything that happens here is 100% consensual. Still, if this isn’t your thing, please proceed with caution.
> 
> Thanks times ten million and then some to [enigma731](http://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731) for beta, cheerleading, edits, and your tireless support that included telling me "yes, shut up, don't worry" at least five times a day for about three weeks. You're amazing.

“You’re going to have to be convincing,” Fury says, and it’s not until later, when they’re completely alone and it’s all setting in, that Clint understands what his boss means by _convincing_.

“You okay?” Natasha asks quietly over papers strewn across Clint’s messy table in his Brooklyn apartment, folders and names and photos crossing in front of both of their eyes like a misshapen jigsaw puzzle.

He snorts unceremoniously. “If I lie and say no, does that make me any less of a man?”

Natasha sits back, regarding him in the way that he knows means she wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to phrase it. There’s a look in her eyes that’s teetering more towards serious instead of the usual mirth that accompanies the action, and she lets the silence percolate between them for longer than necessary before speaking.

“It’s not an easy thing, Clint,” she says gently, moving just enough so that their shoulders are touching. “And it’s not normal. I know that. I wouldn’t judge you if you said you weren’t sure.”

He looks up sharply. “You think I’m gonna back out?”

“No. I’ve never known you to back out of any mission,” Natasha returns pointedly, her response riddled with a mouthful of additional words that she doesn’t bother to express because she knows she doesn’t need to. Clint sighs, pushing back in his chair.

“Ever done this before?” he asks instead, glancing down at the papers in front of him before meeting her gaze. He shakes his head, chuckling darkly. “Right. Of course you have.”

“But you haven’t,” she responds quietly, leaning forward to catch his hands as they move across the table. “And they’ve been marks, Clint. It’s never been with someone I’ve cared about.”

“Is that supposed to make us even?” he asks miserably, watching the way her face carefully shifts into a hardened glare. He knows as well as she does why they were given this assignment to begin with, that more than just being Level Seven, there’s a history of trust that exists between them, one that’s rarely seen among S.H.I.E.L.D. agents much less those who try to cross their personal lives with their working ones.

“No. I was hoping it would make you feel better,” she replies flatly, all trace of sympathy gone as she drops his hands.

“Well, it doesn’t,” Clint answers, because with everything they’re going to have to do, he feels that he needs to at least ground himself in some honesty if he can find it.

She seems to soften at that, her eyes lowering. “Would it make you feel better if we had a safe word?”

Clint shakes his head. “We can’t do that,” he says finally. “There’ll be cameras, there’ll people watching…it’s too dangerous. We can’t risk it.”

“I didn’t mean a verbal one,” Natasha says softly. “You always understood me better when I wasn’t talking anyway,” she adds with a shrug, the hint of teasing evident in her tone, and he can tell she’s trying to lighten the mood as much as she can. He smiles back tightly as Natasha gets up from her chair, moving to his side of the table.

“No matter what happens with this, you know it changes nothing,” she says quietly, tracing a hand down his cheek.

He shivers at the feel of her skin, swallowing down the words that seem to catch in his throat each time he tries to speak.

“Yeah. I know.”

 

***

 

Clint stops by her apartment two days later for a final check-in, entering the bedroom as she shovels a vast array of skintight and scanty looking clothes into a small bag.

“You just…happen to have all that stuff?” he asks apprehensively, as he watches her work.

“I haven’t needed any of it for years, but yes,” she replies shortly. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll provide their own things once I get there. I probably won’t even need half of this. But I have to give them something to believe, or this is all for nothing.”

“Right.” Clint watches as she moves to the dresser, emptying the contents of her make-up drawer, carefully sorting out the weapons (his favorite lipstick knife, he sees, is set aside first) from the few actual enhancements.

He twists his hands together. “So…you’ve got everything you need.”

“Yes,” Natasha says curtly. “And Hill gave the final briefing this morning. The hardest part will be getting in, and then, you know. Convincing.” She spins on her heel, pinning him with her gaze. “The rest should be easy, though. As far as we can tell, the people running this operation haven’t been around long enough to be overly suspicious of a bust like this. Which definitely gives us a leg up in terms of catching them off guard.”

He watches as she finishes getting dressed, stepping into dark jeans and pulling on a black tank top, an outfit that he knows is just a cover until she can undress and then redress safely in the van parked two blocks over, away from any possible prying eyes. Natasha adjusts her bra strap, glances around the room, and then picks up her bag, walking across the floor to stop in front of him.

She drops her luggage to the ground and leans forward to kiss him gently, her lips soft against his skin, familiar and sweet and real and not at all what he knows he’ll soon be feeling. He tries to put the thought out of his mind as she pulls back, their eyes locked, unmoving, even as she leans over to pick up her bag again.

“You ready?” Clint asks hoarsely, unsure if he’s asking for himself or for her. He brings a hand to her face and she lets herself lean into it, allowing him to see the smallest hint of her vulnerability, before straightening up and squaring her shoulders, slipping into the infallible mask she’s mastered so well.

“Yes.”

Clint nods, drops his hand, and takes a breath.

“See you in two weeks, Katerina.”

 

***

 

The brothel is located in a part of Bangkok that Clint would never find himself in for obvious reasons, dingier and definitely more decrepit than he remembers from his initial scouting. It’s not even the fact that in order to get there, he’s had to drive down a long line of hookers who slunk in and out of his peripheral vision, girls leering at him through the car windows in their too-low shirts and too-tight pants. The whole place in general gives off a smarmy, uncomfortable vibe, one that makes him feel strange about slipping into skin he’s far from familiar with.

 _Man up, Barton_ , he scolds himself as he parks the car, slinging his jacket behind him as he approaches the building. Clint hands off his ID to the man at the door who gives him a once over before moving aside, allowing him to pass through the door.

Waves of smoke – real and machine generated – assault his vision as well as his senses when he walks in, and he takes a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting and the few people snaking in and out of his path. The first thing he notices is a tall amazon with dark brown hair who is leaning off a pole, dollar bills sticking out from between her overly large breasts. It takes all of his effort not to start searching for Natasha out of habit and he stops himself by sliding into a chair at the bar instead, next to a man who looks half wasted and smells like he crawled out of a dumpster.

“Vodka soda. Extra vodka, little soda,” Clint grumbles roughly, shoving his cap low over his eyes and leaning forward slowly. He nurses his drink while he scans the room, looking for the telltale defining features of the man that’s supposed to be his target – Franc is a heavyweight champion turned brothel owner, ripe with tattoos and a loud, abrasive personality, which is supposed to make it easy to pick him out among a crowd of booze filled men and stick-thin women.

“Come here often?”

Clint turns to meet the gaze of the man who’s keeping him company in the next chair, his blond hair flopping messily into his eyes as his words slur into each other.

Clint shakes his head. “Nah. First time. Looking for a good fuck, and heard this was the place to get it.” The words feel dirty on his tongue, almost foreign, and he wonders at what point this job that he’s been doing comfortably for years has become less of a formality and more of a liability.

“Well, you heard correct. Girls here, they’ll give you the best fuck you’ve ever had. Couldn’t move for two days after last week, I’ll tell ya that much.” The man takes another swig of his drink, the liquid dribbling down his shirt as he drags a hand across his mouth. Clint leans closer, his senses penetrated by the heavy smell of alcohol coming from his companion.

“Yeah? So who do I talk to about getting a girl around here? Real pretty, just like the ones you’re talking about.”

The man breaks into a grin, showing off yellowed and slightly crooked teeth. “Franc’s your man,” he says, jerking a thumb in the far direction of the bar, where Clint can just barely make out a heavy-set guy dealing some green bills with the same deftness that Clint grabs arrows from his own quiver.

_Well, at least the description was right._

“Thanks,” Clint grunts in return, sliding off the chair and downing the rest of his drink in one gulp. He moves slowly through the room, until he’s right behind another man that’s currently in the middle of what Clint suspects is for the same type of transaction he’s about to make. When the man finally turns away, Clint pushes himself roughly through.

“I’m looking for a girl,” Clint says loudly, doing his best impression of a belligerent half drunk. Franc looks up, meets his eyes and smiles.

“Well, I got lots of girls,” he replies smoothly. “Lots of bitches, lots of whores. Depends on which one you want. Or I can find you a nice mix, if you tell me what you’re looking for.”

Clint uses the moment to scour the room, and pretends as though he’s contemplating his choices until he finally sees her. She’s hanging upside down from one of the bars, her limbs wrapped around the poles, her red hair sweeping across her face like a veil. One leg comes up tantalizingly as she dances, arches and spins her body, and in the shadows he manages to catch the low cut shirt that pushes her breasts together in a way that makes him wonder if she’s even wearing a bra at all. It’s strangely mesmerizing in the way he knows it’s probably meant to be, and he can’t help but feel turned on before his brain snaps back into reality, his mind clearing enough to pull himself back to the present.

“That one,” says Clint, swallowing, pointing in her direction. Franc looks across the room, a slow smile building across his lips.

“Ah, that one. Yeah, figures you want the most expensive bitch in this place. She’s worth it, though.”

The words make Clint’s blood boil without thinking, and he fights down his instinctual emotional response, channeling it into his cover instead. “Hell yes,” he growls. “I’ll pay double, if I need to.” He opens his fist to reveal a wad of twenties with some fifties mixed in, and at the sight of the cash, Franc’s mouth twists into a devilish grin.

“Well, with that kind of dough, you could get two of her.”

“I just want one,” Clint says harshly, sliding into his resting face that he knows means business. Franc shrugs, snatching the money from Clint’s hand and counting it slowly.

“First room to your left,” he says when he’s done, pointing to the stairs leading up towards the balcony. “She’ll meet you there. Stay as long as you want, cowboy.”

 

***

 

Clint climbs the spiral staircase slowly, feeling vaguely nauseous when he lets himself into the small, dimly lit room. No longer needing to be entirely undercover, he discards his jacket and hat in the corner as he closes the door behind him, before sitting down on the bed. He drums his fingers against his knees in burgeoning anxiety as the minutes start to feel like hours, shooting to his feet when he hears the soft creak of the door.

She enters slowly, led by Franc’s hand, and makes it about halfway across the floor before he shoves her down roughly, causing her to fall onto her knees with a cry and a loud crack that Clint knows will leave bruises. As Franc spits onto her back, Clint immediately feels a sting of disgust jolt through his own body. Even though he’s seen her in this position before, and even though he knows it’s mostly just acting – that nothing can _really_ hurt her, not in the way it could hurt him if their positions were reversed – it still drives a hot stream of anger through his body that he can’t seem to shake.

They stare at each other silently, trading the simplest of questions and answers as Franc steps back, and Clint uses the interval to inspect her body because he can’t help it. It’s the first time he’s seen her since he left her apartment, and though he’s used to having much longer stretches of time in between their reunions, the nature of the mission makes it feel like it’s been eternity. He can clearly see the dark bruises on her arms where she’s been handled roughly, a light scar across her leg that he’s not sure is from dancing or something else entirely, and the shock of it overwhelms him as the door closes with a sharp bang, jolting him back into reality. She continues to stare, and he suddenly realizes he has no idea how he’s supposed to do this.

“What do you want?” Natasha purrs quietly as if she’s understood that she’s the one that needs to be in control. She stretches out in front of him the way she had been doing on the bars, her body curling upwards like a cat.

Clint swallows, taking a breath, figuring the easiest thing is to start with what he knows. “Take off my clothes.”

She pulls back for just a moment before smiling slowly, moving until she’s right in front of him, tracing one hand along the line of his bicep and up to the base of his collarbone. With one sharp move, she rips the cheap tee shirt he’s wearing at the neck. It comes apart at the seams, and she tosses it carelessly aside before running her hands over the expanse of his shoulders, bending her head to kiss along his chest.

Natasha takes one nipple into her mouth and moves her tongue over the hard point, her hands finding his elbows as she anchors herself against him, her mouth mapping his body with a sensation that’s familiar and yet at the same time, strangely foreign.

“Hard for me, huh?” she murmurs and he hasn’t even realized how much he wants her until she says it. He manages a nod and she lets out a bitter laugh, before leaning back and swinging one leg upward, the pointed heel of her stiletto boot digging into one of the softer parts of his thigh.

Clint lets out a muffled cry as she bends forward, contorting her body in a way that he feels should be unnatural and he doesn’t have to wonder if this position will leave a mark, because he can already feel the red welt forming underneath the pressure of her heel.

“That’s for thinking you could control me,” she hisses. “I’m in control here. You don’t get to tell me what to do to you.”

She removes the sharp point of her boot from his skin and yanks his pants down without warning before sticking her hand into his boxers, freeing his cock as her foot drops. Clint groans at the movement, at the release of his cock, because as much as he hates himself for giving into all of this it _does_ feel good, a dizzying discharge of pleasure and an adrenaline rush that overtakes his body and suddenly makes him anxious for more. Natasha edges onto the bed, leaning on her knees until she’s pressed up against his body.

“Do you understand?” Natasha asks, her voice hard, and Clint makes a noise at the uncomfortable, almost painful sensation of his erection, which is now positioned at an angle that hurts like hell.

“Yes,” he whispers, arching his head back. Natasha grunts.

“Good. Now lie down,” she commands in a voice that’s both sultry and cold at the same time. As she pushes him roughly back onto the bed, he finds himself wondering if she’s killed all her marks this way, how long they got to feel good before her knife went into their jugular or before her thighs wrapped themselves around their neck. They’ve had talks about their past before, but Clint realizes that everything he knows about what Natasha _used_ to do, what she was _trained_ to do, has all been a scenario in his head until now.

Natasha grins wickedly, standing over him in a position that allows him to fully see her state of dress. His first realization is that his assumptions are correct in that she’s not wearing any type of bra, her breasts instead supported by a criss-crossed top that’s doing a pretty poor job of holding them in place. His second realization is that what he initially pegged as a top is actually an extremely short dress made of thick leather that hugs her skin in all the places Clint knows she would be a fool not to accent, before curving over her ass just enough. She’s taking care to remove her stiletto boots in the same slow manner her hands had previously worked over his body, and as she disappears from view, Clint sits up slightly, watching her removing a knife as well as a long rope from a trunk he hasn’t noticed against one of the farther walls. She catches sight of his movements as she walks back towards him, laying the blade carefully on the bed.

“I said lie down,” she spits out before he can protest. “Who’s in charge here?”

Clint shakes his head, the words caught in his throat, and Natasha advances on him in one swift movement, He registers the sting of her hand against his cheek before he realizes that she’s slapped him, and she bends down until her face is level with his own.

“I asked you who was in charge here,” she repeats coldly, inches from his skin, and he swallows down a mixture of thrill and anxiety.

“You,” he says when he finds his voice. “You’re in control.”

Natasha nods in a way that makes him feels as if, for now, he’s given the one right answer that will keep him alive in this game.

“Yes, I am.” She climbs on top of him and starts wrapping his wrists with the rope, securing them to the headboard just tight enough so that he can move his fingers, but not much else.

“I want you to prove to me that you deserve this,” she says once she’s done, moving to his legs and capturing his ankles with the same tight hold. “I’m worth a lot. So you’re going to fucking earn me.” She stands back, pressing one finger to her lips as though she’s an artist admiring her subject, like she’s studying his body as though she’s seeing it for the first time, like they haven’t ever had seen each other naked.

Natasha crosses her arms over her shoulder, pushing the straps of the dress over her elbows so that it slides down her body and onto the floor. She bends over slowly as she shoves it over her hips, revealing a thin black thong that she also pulls off, straightening as she steps forward.

“Now.” She stops at the foot of the bed, raising one leg, eyeing the way his cock stands rigid and upright. “Tell me again who’s in charge here.”

“You,” Clint replies automatically as he watches a smirk crawl over her face. She pulls herself on top of his body, letting her stomach skirt over the head of his cock, just enough of a sensation to make him shudder violently. She grins, her lips splitting apart to reveal a smile that’s unfamiliar and cold, before she presses them harshly against his.

He cries out, his mouth opening to allow her tongue to snake its way in, her movements violent as she tastes him, explores him. She uses her hands to massage his body while her mouth devours him and it’s rough and it’s dirty and it’s Natasha, because that’s how they fuck each other, but it’s also not, because the Natasha he knows and trusts would never subject herself to being _this_ type of man’s fantasy. Clint’s had plenty of _creative_ thoughts of his own, has imagined himself in numerous sexual situations with her before, but this kind of play is something he’s never considered wanting until now. The juxtaposition of his thoughts against this awareness is almost terrifying, and for some reason, it fuels a need that he’s sure isn’t helped by the way she’s touching him.

“Fuck me,” he gasps desperately and at his words she sits up abruptly, one eyebrow raised.

“Excuse me?”

“Fuck me,” he repeats hoarsely, his cock throbbing. Natasha’s face settles into a firm mask.

“No,” she says as she shakes her head. “You don’t get to tell me when you want me to fuck you.” She reaches over and picks up the knife she’s placed on the ground earlier, twirling it between her fingers. Clint watches the silver catch in the light, the way she wields it as if it’s nothing more than a blunt pencil, and when he doesn’t respond, she frowns.

“I said, you don’t get to tell me when you want me to fuck you,” she repeats more strongly, pressing the knife into the space just above his chest, until small dots of red begin to stain its pristine blade. “Because I’m expensive, and I’m in charge, and _I_ get to tell you when you can have what you want.”

What he _wants_ is to scream, what he _wants_ is his brain to realize how fucked up this is, mission or not. But he can’t do anything except give in, because he’s _enjoying_ it and he promised himself he wouldn’t and _shit_. So he nods, because Franc could walk in at any moment, because who knows how many hidden cameras are stowed in the room, because they need to get to the point where they’re fully believable and mostly because he promised he would go through with all of this in the first place, even when she had given him a chance to back out.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, twisting his body as much as he can against the restraints, feeling the burn of the rope as it pulls against his skin.

“I don’t think you deserve to tell me you’re sorry,” she says coldly. “Why do you think you can be sorry?”

“Because…because I tried be in charge,” he says quietly. Natasha frowns.

“Not good enough,” she replies as she rests the blade of the knife flat against his skin, before turning it ever so slightly and tracing a thin line down his sternum.

 _It’s like this_ , he realizes, watching her work, his cock throbbing as she pulls the knifepoint down his chest, feeling the light trickle of blood as she lets it cut into his skin. It’s like this that she kills, why she’s so good at what she does, and it’s how so many men have fallen under her and met their doom. She lets the blade travel all the way down to his abdomen in lazy, tantalizing strokes before she puts it down again, her fingers drawing lethargic circles off the lines of red that she’s produced. In some way, despite the fact he knows it’s all for show, it feels strangely personal, the way she’s literally marking him with his own mortality, making him a part of her and making him her own.

“That’s for thinking you could tell me what to do,” she says as she moves herself backwards so that she’s in line with his lower body. Her lips close around his cock and she pulls back, sucking slowly, feeling him squirm underneath her.

“What…” He trails off, his response lost in the feel of her mouth, and she recoils just enough.

“Come on,” she says roughly, shoving herself onto him again, her tongue circling just enough to push him to the point where he thinks he might lose it, her breath vibrating off against his body and her voice barely distinguishable. “Tell me you want me.”

Clint feels himself straining, breathing heavily as he struggles to hold himself back.

“Do you want me?” she asks again, and her voice is a cross between nonchalant and hard.

“Yes…yes,” he gasps. “God, I want you.”

“Then tell me,” she growls as she slides back again, and he feels his hips arch almost instantly as she releases him. “I want you to _beg_.”

Clint struggles against his bonds, every inch of his body compartmentalizing itself into tight coils of pain. “I need you,” he implores. “Please, I need you. I _need_ you.”

Natasha lets her gaze sweep over his face before sliding onto him in quick move, both of them wet enough that she can easily guide his cock inside her.

“You don’t get to fucking come until I give you permission,” she says as she moves up and down rhythmically, and he feels himself start to squirm against his will. “I’m in control, remember?”

“You’re in control,” Clint repeats, a thin film of tears leaking from the corner of his eyes as he tries to hold himself back, because damned if she’s not doing every possible thing she knows will get him off. She’s got two hands on his shoulders, her face pressed to his ear with her tongue circling the outer rim, her movements carefully, meticulously controlled so that she can push him right to the edge before stopping, denying him the release he so badly wants.

“I told you, beg for it,” Natasha barks out, increasing her speed, her movements almost erratic. “Open your eyes and fucking _beg_ for it.”

Clint cracks open his eyes to meet her face, dark make-up, too much and too strong, her red hair falling across her cheek in angry waves, her smile calculatingly devious, and for a moment there’s no Natasha, the woman he knows as his lover and his best friend. There’s only Katerina, the whore that’s being paid to make him feel as good as she’s made countless other men feel.

“I want you,” he whispers, his voice a broken moan.

“Do you really?” she asks again, shoving into him so hard that he cries out. “Do you think it’s that easy? That I’ll let you come before I’m ready?”

Clint shudders, his entire body tense and rigid, unable to stop the tears of both discomfort and humiliation that stream down his cheeks.

“Give me permission,” he implores, pulling desperately against the ropes that he feels biting into his wrists, his resolve breaking. “Please, I can’t.”

Natasha laughs quietly, heartlessly. “I thought you were stronger than that.”

“I can’t help it,” he sobs, his eyes burning, and his entire body feels as if it’s on fire, a noose he can’t escape that keeps tightening against his will. “Please let me come, fuck, please, god, _please_.”

Natasha finally stills for a singular moment, a silent consent, and the affirmation is all Clint needs before he loses himself, letting out a full cry, his breath hitching in the wake of his tears as release floods through his body. The feeling overwhelms him and he’s lost in the idea of what’s right or wrong, what’s real or not real, and he distantly hates himself for everything that he’s choosing to be in this particular moment.

Natasha holds onto him in the wake of the orgasm that takes over his body, before pushing into him once more. When he finally stops moving underneath her, she slides off methodically, picking her clothes up off the floor.

Thank you,” she says curtly, her tone unfeeling, leaving him alone on the bed.

“You…” Clint shudders, trying and failing to control his breathing. “You didn’t come.”

Natasha doesn’t answer, instead moving to untie his bonds, freeing his hands and his feet, both of which are red and bruised.

“Put on your damn clothes,” is all she replies as she redresses.

Clint nods, the white-hot sting of embarrassment a burning pain inside his chest. He feels her eyes follow his movements as he pulls on what remains of his torn shirt and his pants, his cock still slick and blood still dripping down his chest from where she’s cut into him, his face sticky with his own tears. Natasha grabs him roughly by the arm when he’s done, her hold firm, and shoves him out of the room and down the hall.

He lets her guide him, more out of exhaustion and shock than anything else. He knows where he’s going, what the next part of this whole fucked up thing is, anyway: Franc’s got a history of getting the women that he employs to bring him the men when they’ve been taken advantage of enough, where he abducts them and then keeps them hidden until he can figure out who to sell them too. Normally, at this point, Clint would be drugged from a drink that she would force him accept, but they’ve both decided to forgo that particular aspect in lieu of a tactic that was slightly less compromising.

“Yeah,” comes a gruff voice as Natasha raps on the door three times. She pushes it open, and he manages to catch a glimpse of Franc’s smile as it widens upon seeing her approach, before a fist solidly connects with his temple.

“I want this one.”

It’s the last thing he remembers before he falls into a blissful blackness that he hasn’t even realized he wants or needs.

 

***

 

Clint comes to on the floor sometime later, opening his eyes to silence and pain and to Natasha bending over Franc’s tattooed body, her fingers tying large wrists with coarse ropes. He dimly wonders if it’s the same ropes she used on him earlier, and for some reason, the thought makes him shudder slightly.

“Hey.” She finishes her work, turning to face him, her hair a tangled mess and her eyes tired. “Sorry about that. You know part of the deal was that I had to knock you out so that it looked convincing.”

Clint nods slowly, studying her face as his pupils adjust to the light, the blood from the gash on her forehead intermingling with the mascara running from her lids.

“Is it over?” he asks, not bothering to move.

Natasha nods and kneels down in front of his face, brushing hair from his eyes, her fingers tracing his skin in comforting circles.

“Yes, Clint. It’s over.”

 

***

 

When back-up finally arrives, Natasha lets the other agents take over while she turns her full attention to Clint, helping him off the floor and into a chair.

“Just stay here for me,” she whispers, kissing him gently, pulling the blanket one of the agents has brought tighter around his body as she shoves a Gatorade into his hands. “And drink this. Even if it’s just a little bit.”

Clint obeys as much as he can, though his hands are shaking and everything is shaking and he’s not entirely sure if it’s because of what they’ve just done, or because of the fact that Franc apparently liked to ice out his entire establishment. Natasha returns in less than ten minutes and sits with him awhile longer, her hands warm on the parts of his skin where he can’t seem to shake the cold, her voice soothing in the space of his ear, different words than the ones she had used on him earlier, gentle declarations of comfort and support.

When he feels comfortable with the fact he can move without falling over, she helps him out of the bar and then into the nondescript van. Natasha sits with him in the backseat, carefully cleans and bandages the cuts on his chest, rubbing small amounts of cream over the bruises on his wrists, and neither of them speaks for the duration of the ride.

They’re dropped off at the small safe house a few towns over and he barely makes it through the door before he breaks from her arms and beelines to the bathroom, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet. There isn’t much to come up but he empties his stomach as much as he can anyway, the pain from his injuries slicing through his body as he dry heaves, unable to breathe. Natasha watches from the doorway, leaning her body against the frame.

“Clint,” she says softly when he’s done, and he straightens at the sound of her voice, putting shaking arms around the porcelain bowl.

“Never. _Never_ make me do that ever again,” he says, his voice shaking as much as he feels his body is. Natasha sighs a little sadly, making her way towards him.

“Come on,” she says gently, helping him sit up lethargically and wiping a damp towel over his face. “Drink. Talk to me.” She pushes a cup of water into his hands, kneeling in front of him, tracing a thumb down his face. “Look at me, Clint.”

He shakes his head in response, and when he finally meets her eyes, he doesn’t bother to hide the pain, the hurt and the fear and the emptiness he’s too tired to mask. He knows she sees it and expects her to continue pressing him but surprisingly, she doesn’t, instead quietly helping him clean up, wrapping another blanket around him and guiding him into bed.

It’s the first night since the beginning of their partnership that they don’t fall asleep in each other’s arms.

 

***

 

The ride back to New York the next morning is both relieving and tense, and Clint thinks that it’ll be a long time before he wants to see Bangkok again. He hears bits and pieces of Natasha’s call to Fury as the quinjet takes off: how Franc, believing Clint to be drugged and helpless, had tried to take him the same way he had taken the others before Natasha detained him, how the entire place had been busted and how they had combed the club to find the hidden rooms in the basement where Franc was keeping the men that he hoped to sell.

“All in all, at least twenty souls saved and recovered. That’s good work, agents.”

They both receive their congratulations and once the reports have been more or less verbally filed and the loose ends tied up, Natasha stretches out, falling asleep comfortably against his body with her head lolling into the space between his neck and his shoulder.

Clint sits tense the whole way home, despite the exhaustion and the pain, suddenly feeling like he can’t relax at all and that he might never be able to relax again.

 

***

 

Clint’s sent straight to Medical when they land, where he’s held overnight for general observation. Natasha is a constant presence during his stay, though instead of crawling into bed like she normally would during any of their post-mission visits she sleeps in the nearby chair, being careful to give him the space she knows he needs. They talk about anything and everything except what happened and when he’s released, he leaves without telling her, holing himself up in his apartment and letting dishes pile up in the sink while bills arrive unopened, shoved in the overflowing mail slot.

“Clint.”

He’s not sure how long it’s been before she comes to break down the door, or at least he thinks she _would_ break down the door if she didn’t have a spare key and also if she wasn’t so good at picking locks. He hears her voice, but doesn’t move from his space under the covers.

“Clint, it’s been three days,” she says firmly, her voice closer now, and he squeezes his eyes shut against what he knows is coming next. Her fingers yank the sheets backwards, exposing him to the world and to light and he sighs, knowing hiding any longer is futile, opening his eyes to meet her stern face.

“So?”

“So.” Natasha finishes pulling the covers off and sits down next to him, crossing her arms. “We’re going to talk about this.”

“How about no,” he replies tonelessly, turning over carefully to avoid exacerbating his still healing cuts.

Natasha blows out a frustrated breath. “Look. I let you off the hook in Bangkok. I didn’t even press you in Medical. And then I gave you _at least_ twenty-four hours to do what you do best. But I’m not waiting any more while you brood over this when it’s our job. We _need to talk_. You owe me that.”

“I don’t…” He closes his eyes again. “Please don’t.”

There’s the sound of boots hitting the floor, and then he feels the bed sink slightly as she settles herself next to his body, the closest she’s let herself get in the days since their mission ended.

“Clint,” she says gently, her hands moving over the bandages on his chest, and he hears the wounded syllables in her tone, the hurt she’s trying to hide. “I don’t understand. It’s me. It’s _us_.”

Clint sighs, swallows down the emotions that threaten to overwhelm him as he opens his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she adds softly in the silence, and he sees the guilt settling in her face at the realization of how this entire operation has affected her.

“I don’t want to do it ever again,” is all he can manage when he finally speaks, and she nods.

Because it was bad, or because you went against your morals? Because if it was bad, I’m going to have to seriously rethink everything you’ve ever said to me in bed before this,” she deflects with a small smile that he doesn’t return.

“The way you talked to me…” He shakes his head. “The things you did to me…”

“Were different than what you’re used to me doing with you,” Natasha cuts in. “I know. I did them because I needed to, because that was what we _had_ to do. You know that. You agreed to it.”

“But I liked it,” he replies hoarsely, looking down, feeling ashamed to even say the words out loud. “You made me like it, and I…it felt _good_.”

Natasha tilts her head slightly. “You feel bad because you liked being humiliated?” she asks gently, and when he meets her eyes she knows she’s hit on the target he’s been so desperately trying to avoid admitting.

She sighs. “Look, Clint…” she trails off. “This probably wasn’t the best way to introduce you to…to that.”

“That,” he says dryly. “You’re going to just call it ‘that.’”

“What else am I supposed to call it?” Natasha asks in frustration. “Yes, I took control of you. And I hurt you. But it was consensual, Clint, you agreed to all of this before you even set foot in that place. I wouldn’t have done it if you had told me not to.” Her voice softens. “And just because this happened, that doesn’t mean at some point down the line, we can’t figure out how to enjoy it. I like being submissive sometimes too, you know,” she adds lightly.

Clint shakes his head, avoiding her gaze.

“It made me feel guilty,” he admits. “And…and all I could think about was your past. I wasn’t thinking about you. I was thinking about the person that you used to be.”

Natasha falls silent, her hands stilling on his skin. “That doesn’t make you a bad person,” she says quietly, when she finally finds her voice. “And I told you, whatever I did to you – whatever you felt – it doesn’t change anything about us. Can you trust me on that?”

He looks up as she laces her fingers through his. “I don’t know,” he confesses softly, ignoring the sting of the words that cut through his chest, the pain that has nothing to do with his injuries. He tries to turn away but she puts both hands on the side of his head, pulling his face back and he immediately sees it, the seriousness and understanding, the emotions she has to know he won’t miss because he knows her better than he knows himself.

“We’re partners,” Natasha says firmly, her eyes boring into his own. “ _Partners,_ Clint. We take care of each other and we trust each other. And this? This is just another layer to our relationship.” She stops, taking a breath. “If you need to talk about it, then talk about it, so we can fix it. So…so that one day, we can do this, and you won’t feel have to feel guilty.”  
  
He sees the truth of the words in her expression, feeling his own walls start to crumble at the realization.

“Come on,” she coaxes gently. “Believe me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

It’s the final straw that causes him to break into the sobs that he’s wanted to release since she picked him up of off the dirty floor of the brothel, since she bandaged the wounds she was the cause of, since she sat by his bed in Medical and told him that no matter what, she would always love him. Natasha brings him a little closer, threading her hands through his hair as he buries his face into her arm.

“You’re still you,” she says softly, her voice low against his ear, and he nods through his tears. “I’m still me, and we’re still us. And I still love you, and I love you more for trusting me with this. Do you believe me?”

He nods again, and she runs a hand over his back.

“Do you believe me?” she asks again, a little more loudly as he shifts in her grasp.

“Yes,” he says when he can speak, and Natasha smiles softly.

“Good.”

She sits up, fussing with the blankets on his bed, and he watches her silently before he decides to speak again.

“Is this the part where you tell me to get the hell over myself and go back to work?” he asks, his voice wavering as she shakes her head.

“No,” Natasha says, pulling the blankets up and throwing them over his legs. “This is where I ask you to hold me, because it’s been three fucking weeks since I’ve been able to do that, and I really, _really_ need it. So do what I ask for a moment, and fucking hold me, Clint.”

He doesn’t hesitate as he wraps his arms around her, and as Natasha burrows against his body, Clint feels himself relax, accepting the safe cocoon of warmth and security. _A shield_ , he realizes as she breathes against his skin, one that they’re building together, one bound by love and trust and devotion, built to withstand the parts of themselves that they’re still trying to figure out how to work through, the rough edges smoothed over in the wake of leveling out.

**Author's Note:**

> This likely errs on the darker side of things I’ve written, at least in a physical sense – most of my angst and dark!fic tends to be emotional and implied. While the content is not uncommon for this pairing, I wanted to give the appropriate warnings for those who might not be comfortable reading this kind of material. All I can hope for is that I tackled what can sometimes be a hard subject to write in a way that was real, delicate and rang true for characters that I love.


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